Enough
by Bluesunkatsuri
Summary: It has finally been enough. All the pain, it'll end. Right now. *pre-Kira-case, possibly a bit OOC. Rated T for suicide attempt.


**Another one-shot! And again, with L. I'm really in the mood for these now!**

**This idea has been stuck in my head for a while now, and I just decided to write it down, as usual.**

**It's pre-Kira case, when L is 16.**

**Warning; mentions of gore, and a suicide attempt.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.**

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It had been enough now. More than enough.

All the horrors of this world, all the terrors of the people that live in it, he knew them. He knew every single one of them, for he had seen everything with his own eyes, felt a quarter of them with his own skin. He had seen people getting killed in front of him, he had seen whole families, broken, or all being killed off, leaving only one shattered person in the end. A person that would soon take their own lives, after all, they had nothing left after the killer had done his work, after the accident had happened, after the virus destroyed everything. He had seen everything. People being tortured, screaming out for help, ear-splitting yowls of agony and bloodied, bruised faces with tears running down from their eyes. He had been in that position himself, once. Less dramatic, but torture is torture. He had seen a virus destroy his family, when he was five, and a year before that, an accident had done enough, too. First his father, then more of his family, his grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts. Then came the last person that had ever been close to him in those years -his mother. she had been killed by a sudden disease, of which no one knew what it was, how she got it, let alone how to treat it. She had died soon after, on October the thirty-first. On his birthday. It had taken only a few days before he got to an orphanage, where he experienced one of the many other horrors of this world. Loneliness, being an outcast. No one there had ever liked him much, not the children, not those who were expected to take care of the orphans but did a terrible job, no one. In the end, when he was completely ignored twenty-four-seven, he had been send to another orphanage, but with the same outcome. They couldn't handle him, that was the whole problem. But why couldn't they? After all, he never uttered a word other than the ocassional, highly necessary ones. Like, that he hadn't gotten food in over a day, and that he had gotten _really _hungry by then, or an answer to someone's question. Not like anyone ever asked him anything. Or, as everyone always loved to hear, a demand to go to another orphanage, that he was getting sick of being ignored all the time, while he saw that other kids got attention, and realised it wasn't normal after all. Had it been anyone else, they would've gotten mad at them, angry, punishing them for it. But not with him. It was the only time anyone ever listened to him, as though they had been waiting for it. Sometimes, he didn't even have to _ask_ for it, and he just got send away. In the end, he had been in five different orphanages in only three years, when someone came topick him up -not to go to a new home, be adopted. No, no one has ever done that. He would go to yet another orphanage, but not an ordinary one. Wammy's House for Gifted Children, in Winchester, England. That had also been on the thirty-first of October, again on Halloween, his birthday. The first birthday he could actually enjoy in his life, for as far as he remembered. There, he was taken care of, got attention, wasn't treated like air. But only five years later, he had to leave again. Not to go to another orphanage, no. Instead, that was the moment he started working. On his thirteenth.

That work was something he loved to do, at the beginning. It was truly his wish to fight for justice, get criminals behind bars. But soon enough, he saw the darker side of it, as well. The first case he had in which he had to go to the crime-scene himself, was just before his fourteenth, and it had been horrifying. No one had been with him that moment, not even Watari, the only person who had shown signs of affection to him since his mother had died. He had been utterly alone, the last thing he had needed that day. It was a case in which a serial killer mutilated the corpses of his victims, who were girls of no older than fifteen, the youngest being only ten. He'd remove the skin from their cheeks and forehead, so you could see their jaws, count the teeth in them, see every single muscle attached to the bones. And then he'd pluck their eyes out, but keep them dangling from the head by a vein. It had been terrible, that case, way too much for a young kid to take. But yet, he's had to work on it. From there on, things got only worse. Once he had estiablished a name for himself, became well-known, there were people who wanted nothing more than to get rid of him, and many of them tried. Some almost succeeded. He had been abducted, tortured, one time even almost buried alive. Sometimes they'd cut him a few times every day, deep, but never enough to kill him. Other times, he'd get burned by the kidnappers, or he'd be locked in a cold, damp and empty room, not even given something like a simple_ blanket_ to sleep on, or a rag, for that matter. Nothing. And then they'd starve him and keep him in complete darkness for almost a week, until he was found and rescued.

And as if the personal pain wasn't enough already, he also had to tell people how he had failed to save their son or daughter, husband or wife, sister or brother, just because he hadn't been fast enough in capturing a murderer, had been too incompetent to do his job like he had to. He's had to watch them break down completely at the horrible news, having to keep a straight face while inside, he wanted nothing more than shatter just as much.

The few times he had worked together with anyone, they'd all stare at him and talk about him behind his back. Oftenly, he heard every single word they said, and if he couldn't, he could imagine what their words were with ease. They say things about what a creep he was, and that it surprised them he wasn't a psychopath or raper himself, because that was exactly what he looked like. Or how infuriating they found it, that he never showed any emotion, while they knew all too well that emotion was the real threat in this line of work. As a detective, you had to keep your emotions to yourself. If you don't, your enemies will think of it as a weakness, or find your weak spots because of it, and you'd be dead in no-time.

Which didn't mean those emotions weren't felt, didn't stab him every time he heard the particular murderer he was after, had committed yet another crime because he hadn't been fast enough. It didn't mean he never felt relief whenever he closed a case, or got frustrated when he was on a case he simply couldn't solve as fast as he had hoped.

He had to learn over twenty different languages, which took all the free time he had between all the cases. He spoke English, Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, Italian, French, Greek, Russian, German, Arabic, Dutch, even Latin and a lot more. All that knowledge was very useful, ofcourse, but sometimes it only gave him headaches. With all the things he's learned, had yet to learn and all the work he had, he hardly ever got the chance to sleep. And when he did, he was plagued by nightmares, haunted by everything he had seen and experienced. Personal memories, cases, whatever he thought several victims from cases must've been through, everything you can imagine. Not one dream had been a good one, for all he remembered. Not one.

He had seen the horrors of this world, and now, it has been enough. It had finally reached a limit, brought him to the very brink of insanity, if not over it already.

He sat in his hotel room, on his bed, knees drawn up to his chest, shivering and with his eyes wide. His fingers were twisted around a silver, gleaming object. An object that would finally bring an end to all the suffering. A knife, long, razor-sharp and clean. The world would have to find another person to represent justice itself, and he was sure they could. And even if they couldn't, he didn't care. He wouldn't be around to witness it all anymore, anyway. No. He'd be gone, long dead, rotting six feet underground in a stupid wooden chest, or else his ashes would lie somewhere, waiting to be blown away by the wind. But never would he witness the end of a rational humanity, the rise of a world ruled by crime. So far, he's been able to prevent that from happening. But he didn't care anymore now. All he wanted now, was to leave, get out of here. Escape the pain, all the suffering, wether it was himself or someone else who suffered. He just wanted _out_ of here. And the only way to do so now, was to end it all himself. He had never been fond of people comitting suicide, but in the last three years, ever since he started this job, he had begun to understand those people better and better.

Until he became one of them.

Trembling, he brought the knife up to his throat, the blade soft but firmly pressed against his skin. He could feel it penetrate the thin layer of protection already, and blood well up. It stung, but the pain was nothing compared to anything else he had ever felt. He was vaguely aware of the sound of a door opening and closing, footsteps and the only voice he ever wanted to hear calling his name. But now, not even that voice mattered anymore. The only thing that did, was the knife, and his own throat, and how the former would slide through the latter, ending it all. But he was trembling too much, his arms too weak to move any further. Just when he had finally gathered the nerve to do this, _this_ happened. And not only that. The sound of footsteps grew louder, faster, closer. The voice that had called his name repeated itself, sounding shocked, hurt, horrified. A hand grabbed his wrist, janked the knife away from his neck, and he dropped it without hesitation. Tears were welling up in his eyes now, faster and in greater numbers than the blood, and he shut his eyes tight. The hand around his wrist didn't let go, but the grip loosened, and another warm hand pressed against the side of his face.

'L...' Was the only thing the voice said, Watari's voice. Not one other sound got over his lips, not even when the young detective let himself fall against the older man's chest, finally letting all those emotions slip, crying so much his throat hurt. But perhaps that was partially because of the small cut in it, too.

He knew, L knew, that he couldn't do this, that he wasn't allowed to take his own life. There were so many thing left he had to do, so much he could still achieve.

But sometimes, it just became too much.

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**And that's it again! I hope you liked it, or whatever. Because, quite honestly, I hardly think something as dark and all as this can't really be _enjoyed_.**

**I'll post another one-shot on Halloween, with L and BB again. But it'll be a lot more dark-themed than the first one, Tell Me Why. It'll be my first attempt at writing horror, but it's gonna be very short... so sorry for that!**

**Thanks for reading!**


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